Eighteen

A while ago I had taken a break from any form of publishing of my works (written, visual, etc.) as I wanted to meditate on something that had struck me with all its love and ferocity. I am still working on it but recently I had this urge to compact what runs in my head into 18 verses which would serve as summary and hint to what I am working on. These 18 verses are structured into 36 questions (in 108 lines. Funny isn't it? 18 * 6 = 108 i.e. the original multiplicand with nothing (zero, 0 ) in between!) which might help an interested person to meditate and ponder further on the intricacies of life. These 18 verses cannot and will not claim to be the one-stop-shop for a glimpse at truth. There is no right answer to these questions, so commenters might do well to refrain from trying to check their answers!

Today is the day spent in worshipping Goddess Saraswathi. Think about it, were it not for her what is it that would have been passed down the ages? Where would all the great works of literature, drama and poetry be? Would we know the gods and goddesses in Her absence (she is also the goddess of speech, hence the Vedas would never have reached us!)?
Not that this is worth Her attention. Not that this is to Her refined tastes. Not that this is the best that can be offered to Her, but this is what I can. This post is offered to Her.

1
Isn't it an attempt at magic,
When we cast life's rainbow
With half-done words, black and red?
In the infinitely finite desert
Slashed by the winds of time
Do hawks and snakes, like paths tread?
2
Sitting in the benevolent shade
Biting the juicy fruit, do you recall
What you had once called rotten has grown thus?
When the lifetime of goodness is but
A day in the life of Truth, what is
Good, bad and this duality to us?
3
Like the swan exclaiming "I am alive"
By gazing into the stagnant lake
Why, in mirrors, search for yourself?
If the "why"s and "how"s matter not
And the beheld is all of truth
Isn't life a well-stacked shelf?
4
After listening to the villagers' words
Did any crow powder itself and
Which donkey sipped honey tea?
Having lost it in the woods
Why gather a dozen strong men
And search it in a well-lit monastery?
5
Though meats for lions, grains for doves
Fish for seals, and salvation for a sage
Don't they all want the very same?
While the stolen lasts four nights
And the arrogated, a while longer
What's time to an untainted gain?
6
What's thought to a hungry stomach,
Or God to a bereaved mother
Or reason to whom in love swoons?
Why measure truth in pounds
Or mountains in thumb-lengths,
Or wide oceans in full teaspoons?

7
With all your bags packed
Shouldn't you know where you are
Before you start to get there?
Why, like dark autumn clouds
Without a drop of wetness within,
Do you rush to thunder and flare?
8
Without knowing why water is wet
Or why the flame glows warm,
How could you ever know honesty?
When in no storm, does gold leaden,
And no grief makes coal of diamond
Why trade virtue in adversity?
9
Why does it astonish you that
No sword can bleed the air,
And a feather, no cudgel maims?
In the cold, lonely winter night
Doesn't every red coal need
Fresh breath to blush with flames?
10
Does the creeper weep tears,
Because the rusted pole
Broke in half and tore it too?
If every joy and grief were like
A sip of water, can an unbinding
Memory, brew unrest in you?
11
Why enter the marketplace
And walk amidst baskets of goods
Without knowing what you want?
To a river clearly flowing its course
On to the chosen sea, do shunned
Green meadows and deserts haunt?
12
When one knows what is, is
How can one ever discriminate,
And how can one not do so?
Though boiled rice by a grain is told,
Would you buy a jewel chest
Going by a single ruby's glow?

13
Like an overflowing cup of tea
How can the chatter of the mind,
Allow the Divine to take its seat?
Ever wonder why fishermen, old,
Teach you to tackle and bait, but
Silently bite into the carp's meat?
14
In this world of unending action
Who can be happier than the
Dispassionately passionate worker?
When every act of love and labour
Is touched by the deepest flame
How can this man ever ail or suffer?
15
Have you watched two lovers dance
Stumbling and twirling and tripping
But laughing in their togetherness?
When there are no words, no ideas
No honour, no status, no point to prove
Can there be fear in Truth's soft caress?
16
In a haste to understand it all
Why do you cast him in your shadow
When the Divine casts no reflection?
What use is any alien resolve to call
All the Divine and live in a haze
When deep down lies a trembling scission?
17
Having saved your son from seven deaths
With seven sacrifices and seven fasts
Should you now cry at his grave?
Ever know from where desire comes;
Where borne the effort and ease or,
The fate you fear and fortune, crave?
18
When there is none to make you think
And none to make you feel or realize,
Why make a God of a wordy ploy?
Although these eighteen known shall
Breathe life and joy, would a soul
Ignorant, not live and enjoy?


Yadakshara padh brashtam maathra heenantu yad bhaveth
Tat sarvam kshamyathaam deva, Narayana namostute
Visarga bindu maathraanee, padh paadhaaksharaanee cha
Nyoonaani cha atirikthaanee, kshamsva Purushottama.

Missing Report: Navratri Celebrations

Is it always the case that the days past always seem romantic and the present day will be the romance of a later time? No really, nearly everyone seems to talk in those terms:

"You know, those days when..."
"Its really nothing like how when we were kids...."
"You should have been there when..."

But is it really mere romance and the perks of a claim to nostalgia?
I am now in Bangalore (don't bother keeping track of the places I have been in the past 2 years) and ... where is the Navratri? I am not interested in the sales (actually, I am), or shows or fireworks. What happened to those simple joy that everybody was party to?

Golupadi...

To those who aren't familiar with that, it was basically an assembly of planks along an incline, much like a staircase, on which a variety of dolls and trinklets were assembled in the most colourful manner. The golupadi (hereafter called GP, because I anticipate I will be using it often) was covered in a cloth (usually a veshti) and we found great pleasure in tucking it in alignment with the edges of the GP. My uncle is the finest at assembling the GP. The GP at their house was enormous and would cover the entire living room. The GP was not the only thing to focus on. Around the GP on the floor, parks, beaches, swimming pools, marriage processions and the like would be assembled. Let me describe the process in a little more detail.

On Amavasya night, we'd start lowering the cartons from the attic/loft. When we were kids (and this is no romance) we got to climb into the attic space which couldn't hold an adult. So it was a privilege to be crawling in there. I would be on my knees crawling all over and pushing cartons closer to the mouth of the loft, and dad would lower it with the help of mom. Then, mom and my sis would start unpacking stuff and marking the cartons (to ease the process of re-packing). Mom would have packed some of the porcelain dolls in one of my old shirts or shorts and then there would be squeals and sighs from the floorspace about how I have grown up so fast! Geez! Give me a break.
Once the cartons were all on the floor, we would complete the unpacking and start assembling the wooden GP (this was later replaced with a nut-n-bolt iron GP). What followed was mayhem while deciding which doll should go where. The night was usually consumed in this chatter and whimpering about how "my idea never gets an ear".
The next day mom would light the kerala lamps (polished with tamarind paste or vibhuti) and the rangoli would be spread well. Years of watching her and my sis do the rangoli helped me in competitions that my companies held.
As the name goes, Navratri is all about what happens at night. The house would be well lit with lamps and the smell of sundal (a mostly-dry dish made of legumes) would fill the air. Ladies from all over the neighbourhood would come over and bring their daughters along (this is also why I liked the Navratris ;-). The girls would walk in in their fresh pattu pavadais (set of silk blouse and skirt) and look so devastatingly beautiful. Did you by any chance catch the advt. on the hoarding about the reversible pavadai? Wow! That kid looks so beautiful. I personally think pavadais were invented to make fathers and in general guys develop jelly knees! Anyway, so these lovely ladies and their mothers would walk in, admire the GP and all the arrangement and either sing or recommend that their daughters sing (which worked fine with me) some carnatic piece. This went on for 9 nights and everyday there was a different sundal at our place. I am not particularly a fan of sundal unless there is some element of spice in there. No, I am not talking about the girls.
Another part of the evening found my sister and I walk into the houses of people who had also assembled a GP. These people would usually come over home to invite us, or we would go to their place and invite them. So, we'd walk in, admire their GP (I invariably spotted areas of improvements which were promptly shushed by my sister). I got to be cute and smiling and allowed every elderly lady to ruffle my hair while I smiled cutely at them. My sister took great pleasure in showing me off as her stuffed toy and for reasons best left unknown, I let her. We would sit there for a while, collect the packets of sundal (some places I got a chocolate or an apple for accompanying my sis) and then bear my sister singing a song. Frankly, she's not bad, but somehow she always managed to go off-tune at a particular point in the song. Those days my voice was easily matched with my sister's (and I even got to talk on her behalf when she didn't feel like talking to her "friend" on the phone) and I would try to fill in those places where she erred!
There was always the fun of picking the best sundal, and I would make it a point to visit that "auntie" once more!! Saraswati puja gave us legal excuse to stay away from books (although of late I find it very difficult to stay away from my instruments and books) and we enjoyed the act of going to each and every room and painting every item with sandal wood paste and kumkum. Then the party would end.

So where has all of this disappeared? It seems to linger a bit in Madras, although most of my fun times and memories come from the Navratri celebrations in Bombay. Madras was fine too, but nowadays there isn't much of this "visiting-collecting-singing-inviting" role being played. Pattu pavadais seem to become drab after the age of 6-7 for girls nowadays. Some lingering whiffs of those wonderful days still hang around the corners of my world, but it is definitely nothing like what it was then.

Now in Bangalore, our neighbour was telling my mother last night, that she has never been invited to a Navratri evening at anyone's place. I rolled my eyes over and over again, till I felt dizzy!

Now people have shopping festivals and the like... I miss the festivals we once had which were available to everyone... In case you are celebrating it the old fashioned way, do let me know. I promise to behave and will surely sing a song. You can even give a shot at ruffling my hair (not much of it remains). All I want is a golupadi, some sundal, lots and lots of girls in pattu pavadai and a willingness to accept my invitation to visit our golu. Anyone?

Now showing...

Before I get to this post, let me point readers to the conversation on an earlier post and my response to it (for sake of clarifying).

Its been a while since I deliberately watched TV. Passing by the screen on your way to the wash basin or similar activities forgotten in the drudgery of the day, are not counted as watching TV. The past few days found me returning to the TV nearly after a 2-3 year hiatus. I wonder how long this would last! I wanted to share a couple of things that I enjoyed.

Friday night presented "Shadows in the sun" starring Joshua Jackson, Claire Forlani and Harvey Keitel (in the order of appearance). The story had 2 things very appealing to me: it was about the travails of a writer in self-doubt(though not much was discussed about that) and it was set in (ummmmaaaaa) Italy! One thing disappointing was that there was very little of Ms. Forlani (isn't she pretty? And her eyes always seem to laugh whether her lovely lips give her away or not). Whatever there was, was of her in very short shirts and mostly bouncing away on her horses. I liked the lightly paced story and the very convincing portrayal rendered by Harvey Keitel (as the ex-writer Weldon Parish). Joshua is very cute and with that unshaven face, does appear quite sexy (if I may say so). The end was straight out of a fairy tale and goes as predictable as most movie endings go nowadays (am I becoming cynical?). I enjoyed the sunny settings and the very Italian way of living life (I still to find sufficient argument against my opinion that the best of life is packed in the boot shaped land). There are some light moments (like Joshua being thrown into the lake) but it was the dialogue towards the end that I liked (not all of them!). At one point, Weldon Parish says: "You don't choose an art, art chooses you." I liked it because I belong to the old school of thought. :-) I also liked the quite elegant way in which a father doesn't get possessive of his daughter and enjoys her move towards a man (as if that is the one of the most important things for which a daughter is raised).

What is it about standup comedy serials nowadays? Is it just me or are they all getting so predictable? Friends, Seinfeld, Caroline in the City... you name it. The dialogues and jokes are getting so awfully predictable that I fail to laugh anymore. No, seriously, study the dialogues (I realise that studying standup is not really an interesting task) and you will find a pattern: do something, and then do just the opposite to make it appear funny. The typical "What can go wrong now?" prod that humour writers use is starkly visible. I can effortlessly predict the nature of the next shot (maybe not the exact dialogue) and the whole joke is lost. Compare these with pure fun like Tom and Jerry or Calvin and Hobbes. When tom runs around a corner, and Jerry is waiting there with a flat wooden plank to knock him, can you say what will happen? Do you know that Tom will be smacked into the shape of a coffee table with his face as the top? Did you know that he would fly off in the shape of a baseball? Did you expect that his butt and tail would stay stuck to the plank while the top and feet kept running? The possibilities are infinite and hence the novelty of the shows. I don't know, these comedy shows are not really that anymore to me.

Discovery Travel and Living is the best of channels I have ever watched. Nearly each and every show is spectacular, but there was one that caught my eye recently. I hate these American Idol, Indian Icon, Popstar of the Year kinda shows. It is outrightly annoying and such a sham. But this show on D-T&L called The Runway, is very interesting. For one it is about fashion designing and two, the judges are knowledgeable and clear in their decisions (unlike some judges on some shows who stick to being nasty and stupid and think that that is cool). They explain their judging criteria and methodology and I find that very impressive. Since I enjoy designing, I was able to follow the activities of the contestants and was able to reach a judgment on my own before the judges announced theirs. Our judgments matched and that made it appealing to my sensibilities. Its all about theme, stitch, cut, pattern and design. In short, its about work and not people's attitudes and how they respond when they fail and all that bullcrap. Very enjoyable show.

Cookery shows excite me like no woman does (sorry about that, ladies). The sheer colour, settings and the aroma (what? you can't smell it? :-O ) send me on a high. The shows on D-T&L take the cake but other shows (Zee and Star) are interesting too. I like the sets in which Kylie Kwong cooks. It is so correct for the dish that she prepares and you know she is passionate about the food that she cooks. Unfortunately a lot of it is non-veg, but is sufficient to roll me on my own adventures in the kitchen. One thing that these shows seem to tell me: Never cook by following instructions; let your heart flow. Works well with me! :-)

The inevitable

Swathed in light blue, the skies laughed as God and Devil stepped lightly over the clouds. The nimbus dipped oh-so slightly and spread themselves to grasp the wide feet of the God and Devil. Have you felt the loveliness of a child's breath on your neck? Have you? You might then share the smile and joyous tears that the nebulous white shed in the sheer bliss of holding the Divine pair. Young thunderclouds flexed their bellies and stitched together frivolous tufts with the needle of the bolt in order to prevent the Pair from falling. The older scanty clouds smiled benevolently at the knowledge that falling and floating were but Divine will. Larks and hawks darted between the fingers of the Devil and the hawk fed on the slower bird on the palm of God. The Devil smiled and the hawk flew away with the remains. The blood mixed only with the rains of the younger clouds. The older clouds knew that none would remain through the distance of space and time to the rock hard earth and let the blood flow through.

It was early noon and the Pair was above the sun. What fed the sun couldn't be affected by it. They were involved in a deep discussion about the inevitable and the cupidity of the human mind to ensure the working of their will.

"Brother, tell me why did you let them think if you never wanted them to will?" asked the Devil. He snapped his fingers around a beam of sunlight and lo! out flew a skylark.
"Isn't it fun to watch them quibble over their petty lives which is but ephemeral? I was afraid someone would read this man's words and start ruining the fun."
"You are at once gracious as you are wicked. No wonder people worship you."
"That is something we will return to on another day, my dearest brother, but why do I sense a tinge of envy in you?"
"Dear brother don't you know that although envy is attributed to my ways, I have no reason to be envious." He smiled and turned around after catching God's frown.
"So in the matter of the inevitable, what is your say?"
"I feel that you create the inevitable, and I create the human will and the human folly is always in pitting the ways of yours with mine and often confusing one for the other."
"Bravo! Bravo! Well said, oh king of the spoken word! In all the kind words that I can utter and in all the truth I might speak, when have my words danced a tango like in yours?"
"And you wonder why I have no reason to be envious?"
"Let us put a human mind to test. Are you interested?"
The Devil saw the setting sun shake its head in despair. How many days had the sun been audience to God's tests? Did the sun shine brightly with the hope of sheltering the ways of the God from the human eye? Such a loyal servant of the God can only redeem such pitiable truths by burning itself and not uttering a single cry, thought the Devil.
"The day is yours, brother. Can Time stop you?"
God swelled with pride and tossed a subservient cloud farther into space where the luscious blue precipitates to darker and gloomier shades.
"Come. Let's go."
As they walked amongst markets full of men and women they watched several people swear by the name of God and curse a shrewd bargainer as the Devil's child. The Pair smiled, but for different reasons.

As they walked past the shops into the settlement along the banks of the Danube, God clapped his hands and every human pair of eyes looked heavenward at the young thunderclouds.
"I know what we'll do. There lives a man and his wife out there. Both of them are known widely for their charitable ways. Its his day today. You know what I mean?" he winked at the Devil. The Devil knew exactly what God had in mind and made his plans accordingly.

God pointed his fingers to the earth and slowly raised a mendicant from his shadow. He breathed over his palm and into the beggar's being. The beggar bowed low and walked towards the hut.
"Let watch the fun now", said God and rubbed his hands in glee.
"I'd prefer sitting on top of the hut and watching it, if that's ok with you."
"Well, I have to be with the beggar, so I'll stay around him on the ground."
The Pair walked their paths but it was never a departure. How can water and wetness be separated?

The beggar walked up to the hut and called out.
"Anyone home to give some food to a hungry beggar?"
Bending under the door of her hut, the lady walked out to see who was calling out to alms.
"Aah! The generous lady of the house is here. My name is Heinrich and while passing through the market filled with stingy devils", and here God looked up to see a non-chalant Devil on the roof, smiling, "I heard great tales about your generosity. Is it true what they say?"
"We offer what we can in the name of the large-hearted God", and it was time for the Devil to look at the guilty frown on the God's face.
"So would you have enough to fill my shirts pockets?"
Frau Oliva looked at his shirt and noticed the shallow pocket with a wide mouth. Half a loaf of bread is all that it can hold, maybe a full loaf, she thought to herself.
"Definitely, Brer Heinrich", she said and turned to re-enter her hut.
"Beware of hollow promises, lady. The God shall take away your husband who is still in the forest and feed him to the wolves, if you go back on your promise."
Frau Olivia shuddered under her skin. How did he know that my husband was away in the forest? He must be very powerful and capable of doing harm to my husband. Let me fill his pocket and see him off.
She returned with two loaves of bread and offered it to him. He grabbed them and stuffed them in his pocket and turned to her.
"What? That is it?"
"No, no Brer Heinrich. I was merely waiting to see how much space was left and what should I bring next."
"Some potatoes would be good."
She rushed in to bring a bushel of potatoes and offered him a handful. He grabbed her basket and stuffed it all in his pocket. He bent over to pick one that had slipped away and stuffed that one too.
"What else do you have to offer?"
She rushed in and brought all the grains, wine and vegetables that she had stacked and he kept piling them all into his pocket, but the pocket would never fill. She went out into the kitchen garden and plucked all the tubers and gourds, even the ones which cried out for some time before the ripen. She rushed back, her hair tousled by the impending misfortune on her husband and her hands trembling under the weight of his imminent death.
"Take all of this, all of this, but please be satiated."
He filed them into his pocket and looked up for more. She sank to the threshold and was the shade of the mercy she sought from the God above.

God smiled at the Devil and spoke in a voice none could hear.

"See? When the inevitable is right before you, the human mind thinks it can still rearrange Fate, rearrange My Will."
Devil smiled and whispered into the woman's ear in a voice which the God couldn't hear.
"You missed looking under the wicker basket."

She looked around startled wondering who spoke to her and decided it was the all knowing beggar. She ran into the hut and tossed the basket aside to find sacks of grain buried in the floor. She cried aloud in happiness and dragged them out to the beggar. He frowned at her but opened his pocket. She poured the grains carefully with the silly fear that a few grains that might fall out would refuse her husband a chance of returning safely. After emptying 6 sacks of grain, the beggar looked up at her with a smile of triumph.

Again the Devil whispered in her ear, and she rushed to the rear of her hut. She founds four cartloads of vegetables. She yoked herself to them and pulled them to where the beggar stood. It is amazing, how a God fearing woman can age in the matter of a few hours, under the pinning thumb of fear.

She emptied them one at a time into his pockets but there was always space for more. She collapsed at his feet and wet his feet with dearly begging tears. God knew that this game that the Devil was playing in response to his would only amount to the wrong person dying tonight. He thought a bit and smiled.

The beggar finally spoke.
"You are indeed generous but my pocket has space for just one pumpkin. Give me the best you have and I shall walk away happily."
She shook her head and her lips scraped the earth for some mercy. The Devil smiled and whispered again. She looked up with some hope and thanked the God for whispering in her ear. She dragged her worn self across the ground and pushed the pile of washed clothes out of the basket near the door. There, under the clothes, lay a bright pumpkin. She clutched it to her breast. She dragged herself on her elbows and raised the pumpkin to his pocket. When she was just about to stuff it in, God blew the hair away from her face. Astonished at the amorous act of this beggar, she let the pumpkin slip. It fell into his pocket and tore it apart under its weight. Out spilled all the grain and vegetables that she had poured in generosity.

The beggar stepped back and was trembling in anger.
"So this is how you treat a mean beggar? This is how you wish to show off your well being? What greatness have you gained by ridding a poor man of his only way to carry his mouthful of bread? Arrogance hasn't brought a man to His doorstep. Your arrogance shant bring your husband home."
He spat on the earth and walked away.

A while later amidst the clouds the lark heard its Master's voice.

"As I said, brother, you are at once generous and wicked."

Tell me...

I wonder, as I have little else to do in this wonderful world. I was pondering over the possibilities that are open to a man's character. Reader's opinions are invited (a level between requested and demanded ;-)

A, is an alpha-male. He is physically gigantic and is an achiever. There is nothing that he or the people around him consider impossible for him. He was a wonderful sportsman in his younger days. He was a wonderful businessman and always made the right moves in the market. What he set himself to achieve, he achieved.

A was also a man a great virtue. People knew him to be very generous and kind hearted. He never wronged anyone and held some very solid beliefs. He wasn't very religious, but respected everyone in a manner they should be. He had no apparent weaknesses. He did drink and smoke. About women, no one ever spoke ill of him or even suspected that he might be immoral.

A got himself a wife in an elegant woman from a rich family of kings. Such a woman was she that he was the envy of several cities along every direction of his town. She was very talented and beautiful too. He loved her and took great care of her. He believed in family and respected the institution very much. One day (let's say 20th June 2006) they planned to have a child and went about the usual biology of ensuring one in the wife's womb. Even after his wife dies, he doesn't allow another woman to enter his house.

B, is a woman who is extremely beautiful. Her beauty is unmatched but she is born amongst the servant community of that village. Men would kill for her attention even if it were only for a quick 20 minutes. She knows about her beauty and doesn't resist enjoying the attention of the men she fancies, be it for money or for the sheer joy of knowing that they are her slaves in bed. She undoubtedly believes that she deserves the best amongst men.

My question is: do you conceive the possibility of A slipping to B's charms during the phase (sometime between 15th May 2006 to 15th July 2006) when he is planning a child with his wife and have a one-night's stand with her and impregnate her? Here is a man who has all the respect of the world and holds high values. Do you think he would have slipped? Here is a man who loves his wife so dearly and is currently working with her towards a definitely emotional bond, a child (not sure whether you can imagine the emotional high involved therein). Do you see him slipping? Here is a man who believes in being respectable in society and earning the constant awe of the world, and B belonged to a low class in society. Do you see him slipping and allowing evidence of his mistake (the child that B bears him) exist?

My next, though related, question is: If he still did slip (let us assume that he did sleep with B and impregnated her), do you see B, being the kind of woman that she is, to allow A's child to grow? Do you see her delivering the baby and then vanishing without staking claim to a share in A's life? Esp. after his wife dies (say, she died in the 6th month of pregnancy)? Why would she give up the luxury of a life with him? If all she wanted was more and more men, why would she let his child grow in the first place and jeopardise her beauty as well as several months of no men!?

Given a sketch of both these people, do you think it makes sense if I told you that A had a one-night stand with B and both of them let the child grow within her and be born? Do you see that act (the one-day/noon/night stand) being in accordance with their character and temperament?

Do ponder over this (while I work on another story) and let me know...

The folly of motivation

I had been harping about this ever since I remember, but a recent column (unable to find an online version to it) by Dr. Debashish Chatterjee in the Ascent supplement of the ToI made me jump around shrieking "Yes". The column hardly scratched the surface of the matter, but it was sufficient to get my morning steeped in tarantism.

Motivation and billion dollar industry that thrives on the whole exercise of motivating is what I call parasitical. Current motivation therapy (which a friend and mentor of mine calls group-therapy) is the must subtle form of the strongest bromide. Let's look at what motivation-therapy entails (in its stupidest form). The primary assumptions are:

1. You don't know yourself enough.
2. I know a lot more about you.
3. You are no different from the other person across the table.

The most stupid thing that motivation gurus can assume is that, everyone is motivated by the same thing. The chicken-soup gang goes one step further and points out the really crass and deprived lot and makes you feel better with whatever silly things you might be doing. See? You aren't blind, so feel happy? Heard about the guy who was deaf? You are much better off. I hate it enough to want to puke when I hear the man in suit on stage go: "Don't listen to your negative side. I know you can do it. You know you can do it. Just go ahead and do it." Yuck!

Motivation is a means for creating psychological dependencies on people (gurus) or mantras (statements, quotes, what you have) and hoping to cover the void and not fill it. What one is never told is that the void in a person cannot be filled from without. It simply cannot be filled by anyone but the self, because the void belongs to the self. Its as much as I cannot make you love that woman next door. I can tell you a lot of good things about her and point out to you that she is great and sexy and all that. But if you fall in love with her because of what I said about her, then you are the right person for all these motivational gurus.

Greatness is not great. Truth is the only thing that exists way before we were born and long after we are gone. In dialogue (internal or external) one can create a void which Truth can fill. In that filling, arises a clarity that is personal and hence unique. When clarity has rid the mind and the self of all that is not true, on such a broad canvas the strokes of effortless realisation are painted with least conflict. Action driven by such clarity and truth automatically brings you to the pinnacle of what you are and not what you think is fashionable to be or what someone else thought so for you.

Has anyone bothered to notice certain things about "great" people and motivational gurus? Great people (philosophers, industrialists, sportsmen, scientists, et al) followed their own calling and didn't keep running back to gurus or read tomes of self-help books. Motivational gurus have hardly ever achieved the "greatness" of the "great" people. Why? If they can motivate you to chase your dream and become famous or rich, why haven't they done it? I agree that not all motivational gurus do the "rich and famous" trick, but nearly everyone does.

Has any motivational guru ever realised that you cannot motivate a group of 100 attendees with the same talk? You have to sit down and discuss with each and every individual and understand where s/he comes from and what throbs in them. Motivational gurus would make sense only when they help the native realise what is the truth about him and set him free from fear and other destructive elements of the human psyche. They don't have the time and patience for this, and of course, this won't pay much.

Beware of motivational gurus who deal in cliches and label things good or bad without the wisdom to explore alongwith the individual into the depths of what makes things good or bad (and if he is good, he wouldn't have labeled anything good or bad!! :-).

You cannot be motivated by someone else. You can be drugged into a high and get yourself to achieve something, but that is exactly what steroids do to athletes. Of course, he out-sprinted everyone. Of course, he came first. Can you deny that? But was it his true self that won? Does it matter to have the true self winning and not the projected self? What matters? Realise that and you will realise that no one can motivate you. Discern between motivation and realisation.

Get Organised

I found these sites (and their services) very interesting to my unorganised mind! :-D

http://pocketmod.com/

http://www.officeinteractive.com/

Never marry a writer

Or at least someone who spends a lot of valuable time in (valuable?) dreaming and foreshadowing. :-)

This weekend saw me munching goodies (and that is the single point of the event that is framed well in my mind sans blurry edges) at a ... what do you call them? Well, lets just call them the "interested family". So we were at the house of the "interested family" and I was quite busy munching on goodies like "ribbon pakoda" and "thengai barfi" and "badam milk". I had reason to munch on the latter as well - very well prepared liquor of saffron and badam slices.

Seated on this side was my mother serving as sole protection to her little lamb-boy who was, as disclosed earlier, munching on goodies. On the other side (other side of the goodies) sat (quite upright) father, mother, sister and the cynosure of the "interested family", a young lady whom we shall all call (but not loudly) G. Now G was quite well trained for this event and definitely gushed with customary shyness and "No, no" and "Yes, yes". Her father was all praises about her, while her mother ensured that every statement from her husband received a nod of approval from me. Nodding also helps move desiccated food down the foodpipe.

G's sister was a darling and I would have adopted her had the situation permitted such actions. She too was all agog and jumping as she thought she was supposed to. She giggled at the right times (which always coincided with my looking at her) and whispered (probably nothing) into her sister's ear, prodding her sister to look deeper at the carpet pressed at four points by the table with goodies.

Talk turned to my profession and the other matters I professed to. I was as businesslike as a Marwari under a pile of Lays chips. I shot out numbers, statistics, trends, forecasts and more often, technological babble. G's father received each shot of incoherent, morsel-coated jargon with widened eyes and must have felt that such jargon ushers in prosperity. I enjoyed giving him more and more of the tell-tale goodness.

G, in the meanwhile, looked pretty and comfortable in the well meant cordon assembled by her family. Occasionally, she raised her head and I wonder whether she ever got to taste the barfis. I offered one (no, not the plate, just one) to her and she declined it saying that she wasn't hungry. What? Were these items on the table, leftovers? :-o It seems she had learnt carnatic music, which was rallied with my mother talking about patents. It seems she was interested in painting, which was sent back to their court with my mother embarrassing me with her account of how I won the Camlin All India painting contest at an age, where marriage was something only adults did! Why bring THAT up now, mom? It seems G wrote a lot of poetry and stories, and I shot my mom's nascent attempt back down her throat with a glare laced with a smile. They won. They had scored one point over us. How did it matter? They were missing out on the goodies, with all their chatter.

Soon my mother looked bored and decided to turn spectator (which she was anyway, just that she was used to switching channels). She suggested that she let the "boy" and "girl" talk for a while and "get to know each other". I was wondering whether I could carry the bowl of ribbon pakoda when all hopes were dashed with G's sister offering to clear the table for the "getting to know each other ceremony". What!!?? Why do I need a clean table? Are we going to arm-wrestle?

We spoke for a while. She asked about what I thought of life, and what I thought of a marriage. I was already wrinkling my forehead and was nearly going to complete her next question of "What do you think about love?" Geez! Why does everyone come there and cause indigestion!!? I asked about her career and why on earth she was even interested in this alliance. She gave me reasons which I found frightening!! She told me things about me, which made me wonder "Who is she kidding?" Then she told me something and all I could imagine was a large room with her lying on a couch and I sitting on a chair near her head with a notepad and pen in my hand. Here goes...

"You know something, E?"
She didn't wait for my yes or no.
"I have always imagined this meeting. How you would walk into the house. A slight gust ruffling your hair and then you narrow your eyes to the wind and smile at me lopsidedly."
"Am I the one lopsided or would it be my smile?"
She laughed sweetly and thought I had a sense of humour, but she didn't answer my question.
"And then you would sit on the couch with your right leg over your left."
But wouldn't that prevent me from reaching over to the goodies? I didn't bother asking her that.
"Mmmmm. Such a clear picture in my head."
She was looking at something over mine and I turned around to spot her father's veshti/dhoti hanging to dry. Huh? That inspired her?
"Do you know?"
Again she didn't wait for my reply.
"I wrote a poem for this occasion. Do you want to read it?"
You guessed it. She didn't wait for my answer and rushed to pick a notebook from under the mouse near her computer. No, real old fashioned notebook.
I read it slowly and wondered what "surreptitious" meant. Lilac blossoms? What did they look like? And "gaze meandering down my heart"? Huh? Wouldn't that mean that I would need to dance my head a lot to ensure a meandering (and I thank my geography teacher for teaching us about meanders in the 8th standard class)gaze? When I came to "And I yearned for you, my heart" I must have gulped visibly for she grabbed the notebook from me in well rehearsed shyness. I nearly choked on my gulp and managed to ask her, "That's it? Was there more to it?" She gave me a pondering look not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a dumb question.
"It was good. Very nice. Very touching."
Thereafter our conversation was like the Sensex in May. We soon realised we hadn't anything in common beyond parents who loved to sing our praise. She soon realised that I had nothing to do with literature or the arts (beyond a stint in that Camlin competition). She had nothing to do with technology or the markets. We surely had nothing to do with each other. G's sister poked her head around the door and giggled as she ran back to... somewhere. We decided to call it off.

I think G's mother's ears were already ringing with loud off-key epithalamion, for her expression remained unchanged to the "I don't think this will work out" statement that I let lose. G's father was saddened and patted me on my back (I wonder why. Was I coughing?). Mom was diplomatic and pacified everyone like in one of her serials.

As we walked out, a gust did tickle me on its way past and I turned around to see G tear the page off her notebook. As we drove away, mom carefully asked me what we had discussed. I opened my mouth to answer and all I did was burp! Aaah, such fond memories. :-)





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As I said, never marry a writer. :-)

For art's sake

He clamped his lint ridden mittens over my eyes and leads me carefully over the slippery rocks that I had barely managed to see from the jeep. He had pounced on me and shushed my eyes into denying even the beveled landscape which frilled the road on which we parked our vehicle.

"No, no. Don't look. Shhhh. Shhhh."

I could feel his heavy breath curling its way down my neck and twirling the soft down of my nape in their transparent fingers. I tilted my head hoping to slip away from the warm air which was his, but how do I escape the memory? Isn't it the memory of a breath that tingles way after the life breath has ceased to oscillate between him and the world that we now made ours? Isn't it the memory of last night which makes me stop and pull my stomach in? Isn't it the shy guilt of such memory which makes me reply with:
"No, nothing. I was just being careful of where I walk. Nothing."
He slowly rolls his thumbs along the edge of my ear to their rear and directs me with the firm grip he has on my head. Do I hear something squealing?
We walk carefully and I am aware of nothing more than the gurgling waters of either a brook or an open sewer. The smell of dead trees and biting frost denies me the power of discriminating between the possible source of the rolling sounds. How much we depend on our senses, and in the mummification of these very senses, how beautiful the world promises to be... until we are re-sensitised? Another strong feeling lurks in the cold black that he has ensconced me in... his growing excitement. Andre' is only excited by paintings, colours, textures and, hence, women.

What will it be this time? As we clomp over twigs straining to crackle under our weight but muffled by the dampness of an unwelcome winter, I wonder how it would be to live forever like this? Blind, deaf, tasteless, mute and being guided through the unknown by a hand that creates and relishes in the joy of beauty? Wouldn't it be remarkable? This absolute faith in the unseen Force which can be felt and realised by none other than "I"? I nearly trip over my foot wedged between slippery stones and I feel myself held upright by the vice like hands holding my head. He is panting, and I hear the song of excitement rumble through his nostrils and pulse its way through the mittens and against my eyelids. In all this human rush, I hear the squeals again.

"Alright. Now slowly open your eyes and look only ahead of you."
He loosens his fingers around my eyes and I feel them gradually peel away while leaving a familiar sinuous pressure around them. I roll my eye balls within and slowly open them to a stinging blanket of pure white under soft blue.. or is it blue over white? My eyes flicker straining under the sharp gaze and the urgency that Andre' exudes in knowing what I feel about it.

"Beautiful. This is so..."
I can't open my eyes fully, so I sink to my feet and lower my head.
"Wow! You feel that way about this?"
He holds me around my waist and spoons himself over me. Slowly he raises me to my feet.
"Wait till you see this."
He lets go of me and I continue to adjust my eyes to the blankness of beauty. I slowly smile and find any and every face I can recall on this large white canvas. Not a bird and not the wind has sullied the smooth surface of this expanse, but my mind rapidly splashes landscapes and pyramids and upturned faces all over. With equal dexterity, the mind restores the serenity of the canvas and indulges in another effort of conjuring faces across the white.

The squealing grows louder and I turn to watch Andre' a few yards away holding a conical glass flask in his mouth and struggling with something in a bag. A glint of metal in one hand and a feel a shiver run through me. How can the unknown stoke fear? I wonder what he is doing but he turns his back towards me. The squealing is unbearable and threatens to scar the quietness of the white spread ahead of me. Then suddenly there is silence. I turn to look at Andre and watch him do something with the conical flask. He shakes his left hand before turning around and in the same motion discards a bag to the ground and holding his flask aloft. I raise my eyes to spot the flask with a red fluid in it. I shudder down the length of my spine and find the echo of that shudder rise up my alimentary canal in a distasteful manner.

"Andre'" I scream and turn to look at the bag on the ground.
"Beauty, my love, must be created in the breath, then in the mind and then created for others to behold."

He swings his arm and sprays a blanket of red through the blue and onto the white. I hear the snow sizzle under the scalding weight of a murder in the name of art, murder of a ferret which helped create art with its life.

Beauty Incarnate

If ever...

"Arun, get married. What's the point?"
Sanjana held him in place with her eyes and her hope that he would concede. 12 years since she first set eyes on him, 12 years of watching him evenly age under her gaze, 12 years of watching him always look different from the last time she met him.
"Precisely sweets, what is the point?"
"Arun, please. We have been through this. She loves you. She cares about you. She strives to keep you happy. She so sweetly worries about you. What more could you possibly want?"
"How about someone I love, I care about, I want to strive to keep that person happy, I want to worry about her?"
She breathed in deeply and felt her heart shudder in her throat and resound deeply beneath her ears. She had to get back home. She had to leave now anyway. Vikram would be waiting for her to pick him up at school. He would never let anyone but his mother drop him to school and pick him up.
"Arun, think about it. She's right for you. When do you hope to ever find that one girl who will be all that you ask for? What if she doesn't exist?"
Arun smiled and slapped her lovingly with his glance askance.
"I know she does exist. If ever she gets to realise that, I will marry her."
She struggled with the straps of her handbag and stumbled off the wall on which she was sitting. "Careful!"
"Don't worry."
His smile spoke for him... I love to worry about you.

Of stereotypes and sundry

"Now don't go and write about this evening!", she said.
"What? Why would I convert something strictly personal into a blog post?" I asked unable to figure out where she got that impression.
"Oh! All you writers are like that. Then you romanticise the whole affair and make it either tear jerker or something which turns in your favour."
I suppose she was expecting me to lash back in defense. I couldn't help smile at her, because she was and is very dear to me. She nearly held a dare in her eyes. Never give an angry person what s/he wants, said the Old Mountain Monk to me, before he quaffed his 10th bottle of whiskey.
"How many writers do you know?"
"Oh! E, let's not get down to statistics and numbers and the like. Something more difficult to handle than a writer, is a writer whose core is in the sciences and numbers."

Tu hi meri shabb hai , subah hai, tu hi din hai mera (Ignore this line, as it is from the song I am listening to over and over again)

I simply laughed at what she had to say only to realise that laughing at the face of a girl who is disturbed (whoever dear she is to you, and howsoever well she knows you) is firing a shotgun at your little toe.

I loved the combo that she cooked up (she wasn't at McDonalds earlier). Writer with a head for numbers!!! :-)
People love stereotypes, don't they? I suppose I have been guilty too in my younger years. All Americans were blonde to me (till I met Lucas. Thereafter, they were either blonde or fiery red).

I have heard so many statements like "Sindhi? Gosh! Watch out. If a snake and a Sindhi cross your path, then kill the Sindhi first!" and I would throw my eyes wide open and request them not to generalise. Dean Jones recent remark was in similar taste. Sad.

But the casual remarks go unnoticed and accumulate to influence our sensibilities. "He has no girlfriend? Must be a good guy" (of late that has become "He must be gay!") and various other statements make me smile and the going trend hurts my cheeks. Amongst the most common class of remarks, I think the inter-sex remarks outnumber other categories in casual remarks. Recently my friend told me over the phone: "I told him that I was an independent girl and a free bird. I sure hoped he would not want to have anything to do with me after that." As it so happens a independent and free-spirit girl is not considered good "marriage material". I really love that girl. :-D She used the stereotype against her own sex in her favour (she didn't like the guy and didn't have the heart to say it to him). Then come the "typical geek", "typical nymph", "typical alpha male" and "typical bahenji" type of comments. I wonder what a "typical guy" means!! :-)

Can we ever do without stereotypical notions? Do you see a day go by without ever forming an opinion laced by your prejudices? Is it a healthy concoction to live with? Is it an essential evil? Is it an evil at all?

Wondering aloud...

Two women made me write this post. Women! ;-p

India on the net

I thought you might be interested in finding some sample information about rural India on the net. Do go here: http://www.smartvillages.org/

Freezing Cube

Today I decided to take a bus to work. I suppose I am never satisfied by the several options I get to travel to the same place. I juggle between personal vehicle (car/bike), autorikshaws and buses. Oh! Yes, I also walk down significant portions of my trip. I wouldn't be crazy to walk the entire 11-12 Km. stretch!
So, today I decided that I would get into a bus. 2 buses (the right ones) edged close to the bus stop but I was informed that these particular ones do not go where I want them to. I was surprised. I kept waiting for the 3rd one to carry me to work. Between buses and smartly dressed women, I had very little to look forward to at the bus stop. I was speaking to a dear friend over my phone, and along came ... another bus. I walked up to this one whose midriff had bellows! None of the passengers could confirm whether this bus went along the Intermediate Ring Road. I gave up and hailed an autorikshaw.
As I jumped into one (and I do have some space in these autos to jump in and around), I relaxed to observe the lesser known - or at least the less discussed - world of Bangalore. It was fun watching people gyrate to miss the scooter scraping the rear and the Tata Sumo about to knock your knees. People would confidently put out their hand to command a bus to halt and the rest of the world tripped and ran into that obedient bus's derriere. I smiled at the adorable kids shepherded by a mom-figure, and smiled at the lovely ladies with their upright palms trembling in hope against the oncoming traffic. My driver was a nice guy, and he stopped for everyone. The gratitude due to him was partially levied on me as the folks returned my smiles amidst the smoke shaded road pulsating to the tunes of jarring and musical blares. I wasn't complaining.

One such person pleading an earnest request to be allowed to cross the road was this guy pushing an ice-cream cart. It was this old wooden box-on-wheels with conical wooden handles like a Spanish bull's horns (I haven't seen bulls in India with such horns. How do they do it? Fix an iron mold on the little calf's head and expect the horn to grow into the mold?). He didn't speak a word but looked begging at the driver and slightly shook his head (along an axis parallel to the road). Our good man, the driver, stopped for him and let him push the cart hurriedly across. It has been ages since I saw an ice cream cart up close. Now is the age of softy vending machines, and Corner Houses and 36 flavours of nutty ice-creams. Who would eat out of an anonymous cart? Well, it wasn't really anonymous. It had "Dolly" painted across its side and I think that little figure on the corner was from Amul Ice Cream's advt. The painting was done by hand. The entire cart was in light shades of blue (to hint at the cold innards) and had "Dolly" and the accompanying figure on one side. There were paintings of stick-ice creams along the frills of the cart and I could clearly imagine this man bargaining with the artist to paint an extra orange coloured stick-ice cream in the centre as it would make the cart more attractive!
"But you only paid me Rs. 40 for this, and this is all I will paint."
"Please, Raju, please. Just one here... see? here. Won't it look good? I will get your daughter a nice cup ice cream. Please. Light orange at the tip and darker towards the stick. Please, Raju."

I am glad Raju, or whoever it was, painted it for him. It did look good. And very aesthetically placed between the Vanilla cone-ice cream and the chocolate chocobar.

I am sure our ice-cream man must have enjoyed designing his little wooden cart. There were places where the wearing stripes of cracking wood was revealed. How much would it have cost him to repaint it now? Rs. 20? Rs. 100? God knows. I bought a bottle of paint for Rs. 18. Should be in that range. Should I give him 50 to let him go ahead with it? The sheer joy of his cart was making me loosen the knot on my purse. Then I thought he might get offended and the best thing would be to buy a couple of ice creams and then maybe throw them away or give them to the driver. It would be such a swell thing to do, right? I could buy 5 ice-creams and give him some money and then ask him to keep the change. He will feel happy and then he might buy his children some toys and paint that edge of his mobile cube in a shade of laughing blue. He might thank me before he went to bed tonight.

The signal lights turned green.

A new tool

I thought you guys might be interested in this new tool launched by Microsoft. It seems to lean more towards facilitating Windows Live Spaces (which I remember has OnFolio integrated). Quite a neat concept (both the tool as well as WLS). You might want to try it out!

Faith

If that drop doesn't fall
Before ten's count,
In cheer, I'll know it all
Her love's account.

So, off I start to reckon.
I watch it slide on a "5".
Though I rush through the "7"
It fell 'fore "9" did arrive.

"Was it a slow counting
Or was it destiny's sly,
With a leaf left panting
And a tear in my eye?"

Alas! I think t'was my sloth.
I shall count a dew again.
An omen stirred in love's broth
Is His Nod to a man's yen.

Now showing in Bangalore

Well, I've moved to Bangalore and I am still not sure whether I should be excited about it or not. I like the place and it seems right (minus the real estate prices and traffic) but I am afraid it might be a word of approval spoken too soon. I am currently hunting for information about what happens in the city (events, bookstores, hangouts, restaurants, workshops, courses/classes, institutes, communities, etc.). I found this link to be very useful. Still in its infancy, but a very impressive idea and attempt. Do let me know of any similar sites that you might be aware of.

http://www.eventsbangalore.net/ (Great job, buddy. Will surely join in once I settle down here)
Apart from this one (and metrobloggers), here is my own (small) list of stuff to note in Bangalore:

http://aikidoindia.org/
http://bfs.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page
http://www.theatrecapital.com/script/script.htm
http://theatreroom.com/
http://www.thefullerlife.com/index.asp (very interesting)

http://cfl.in/
http://www.parikrmafoundation.org/
http://www.kfionline.org/schools/valley.asp
http://www.tisb.org/

http://www.iiitb.ac.in/
http://www.iimb.ernet.in/
http://www.iisc.ernet.in/

http://www.janaagraha.org/home/home.htm

So much to do, so little time... Relax! :-)

An unmeasured hiatus

I wonder what makes men - esp. philosophers - assume and expect that uniformity of the human species is possible. To think that a single philosophy, a single methodology, a single combination of such fantastic prestidigitation, could solve every single man's problem or help him understand every aspect of his life, is pure naivete. No single dish can satiate a man's hunger of the soul (have you watched "Walk in the Clouds"?) nor can a single woman swell love in every man's breast.

What is, is.

I am beckoned to meditate on these and I am working on my understanding of life and what can come of it. It is clear to me that a man's moral happiness and bliss is the only eventuality of his life and that neither the world nor life in it, is evil. I also realise that there can be no single path to divine oneness (not in the prevalent religious sense). Every man has to live by his own standard and what standard he chooses is of lesser consequence in the light of why he chose a particular alignment. This text that I work on is primarily for my perspicacity and I might share it with the world (for, once I am clear, I will have very little use of that text). It will help me put together what dawned on me in the recent past.

What it will be, I know not; what it won't, is another set of ingenious directives about how to lead life. If one has no time to observe life and feels a pressing need to get it over and done with in exchange of a goal, then this piece of text will hardly serve better need than in the restroom. This work of mine will essentially help lovers of life name the unnamed.

I will be off blogging (and it is ironic when Blogger's spell checker catches "blogging" as an error) and any form of popular publishing for a while to come.
How long? Indefinite.
Why? Because I love life.